​The corpses no longer vibrated. They had truly risen.

​One by one, the bodies that had been rigid upon the red earth began to move unnaturally. Kretak... kretak... The sound of bones being forced into alignment filled the harrowing silence. Some rose with jerky, staccato motions, exactly like wooden puppets whose strings were being yanked by an invisible puppeteer. Others crawled first, blackened fingers clawing at the thick soil, before finally standing on shattered knees with shins protruding through the skin. Some could only writhe helplessly because half their bodies were destroyed, yet their eyes remained open—for in this place, death was no longer a sanctuary.

​Zombies. The lowest caste among the ranks of the Plagueborne. These creatures no longer knew pain, let alone fear. There was only one primitive urge embedded into the marrow of their rotting bones: find those who still breathe, and end them. And judging by their numbers, which doubled with every passing second, that hunger would soon find its release.

​Amidst the throng of slow-moving dead, several figures darted with far more predatory movements. Ghouls. Their bodies were hunched to the extreme, long arms with tapering black claws dangling until they nearly brushed the ground. Unlike the shuffling zombies, Ghouls moved erratically—sometimes crawling at a blur, sometimes leaping from one pile of corpses to another. A pale yellow glint flickered in their eyes, the remnants of a predatory instinct that hadn't died with their souls.

​The remaining soldiers of Brassvale and Ignis-Sol now faced a new hell. A Brassvale soldier with dented armor shrieked hysterically as he saw his recently fallen comrade suddenly stand upright.

​"Hah?! You... you're awake?!"

​Before he could process the horrific miracle, his lifeless comrade lunged and tore out his throat. "Ack! They're rising! Everyone is rising!" His scream was cut short as three Ghouls pounced from the side, dragging his body into a mire of bloody mud before he could even raise his sword.

​In another corner, an Ignis-Sol mage cast a spell with trembling hands. Fwush! A massive fireball exploded in the center of the undead horde. The flames licked and charred five bodies at once. Yet, the creatures kept walking. Their flesh peeled and blackened, consumed by the fire, but they advanced without a whimper. The mage retreated, face deathly pale, until his back hit something cold—a rotted hand that immediately locked around his throat. Gurgle.

​The defensive lines were gone. Battle formations were pulverized. There was no more Brassvale, no more Ignis-Sol. There was only the divide between those who still possessed a heartbeat and those who no longer required one.

​In the center of the slaughter, Orchid and Khaleed stood frozen.

​They didn't speak. The two Heroes simply stood amidst the encirclement of the dead, realizing bitterly that their duel earlier had been nothing more than a joke. What was the use of squabbling over a sliver of borderland if the kingdoms they defended were heading toward extinction?

​Khaleed was the first to break the ice. He rolled his bruised shoulder, and his fire cleaver roared back to life. Whoosh! This time, the flame was no longer orange, but a blinding blue-white. The heat radiating from it made the air shiver and gleam. He glanced at Orchid—a wordless signal: I'll open the path, you find the opening.

​Orchid responded with a micro-nod. His red sword hummed higher, creating a frequency that pained the ears. Two Heroes, two legendary weapons, one target. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

​Khaleed lunged first.

​He leaped, swinging his fire cleaver from above his head with a force capable of splitting mountains. Wabil remained hovering calmly in her position. Her black hair still veiled her face, her hands hanging limp. She didn't blink. She didn't dodge. She didn't even intend to parry.

​Zip!

​The cleaver passed through Wabil's body perfectly. However, there was no sensation of metal slicing through flesh. The blade of fire simply passed through Wabil's frame as if cutting through thick mist—entering from the left shoulder, exiting from the right waist without leaving a single mark. Wabil's form merely rippled for a moment like a reflection in water disturbed by a stone, then solidified again.

​Khaleed didn't give up. Tsk. He spun his body in the air, swinging his cleaver horizontally at her neck, followed by a lightning-fast thrust to the chest. Three strikes in a single breath. All passed through. All were futile.

​"Now!" Khaleed roared hoarsely.

​Orchid had already vanished before the instruction was finished. His red sword thrust from a blind spot, precisely where a human heart should be. The strike that usually brought instant death pierced through Wabil's back until the tip emerged from her chest.

​Still, there was no reaction.

​Orchid pulled back his sword, then slashed brutally toward the neck and shoulder. Fast, precise, yet the result remained the same. Wabil's body was no longer made of matter that could be touched by fire or magic.

​Wabil finally moved.

​It was just a small wave of her hand, as if shooing an annoying fly. However, the air around her suddenly exploded. An invisible shockwave hit them both. Orchid was sent flying back, his boots digging into the earth to create small trenches. Khaleed fared worse; he was thrown into a pile of corpses until a crack echoed from the bones beneath his back.

​Both rose with great difficulty. Orchid wiped a bead of blood from the corner of his lip.

​"Hmm, you still alive?" Khaleed asked, spitting out dust, his tone still managing to squeeze in a taunt despite his labored breathing.

​"Focus," Orchid replied coldly.

​This time, they attacked with more refined coordination. Khaleed didn't lunge immediately. He stood his ground, twirling his cleaver above his head until it created a growing vortex of fire. The blue-white fire formed a cylindrical wall, trapping Wabil in its center. Khaleed squeezed every last drop of his mana into this technique: Flame Prison. The temperature inside that circle was enough to melt the finest steel armor.

​"NOW!" Khaleed bellowed.

​Orchid darted into the fire vortex, his red sword glowing to its peak. He no longer aimed for the chest. This time, he directed all his energy for a single, straight penetration toward Wabil's forehead. If her body was a ghost, perhaps her head was the anchor of her reality.

​The sword sped like lightning.

​Then, it stopped.

​Two of Wabil's fingers—the index and middle—pinched the red energy blade right in front of her face. Just two fingers. As if she were casually stopping a child's toy.

​Instantly, the fire vortex around them died out completely. It wasn't blown away; rather, the thermal energy was sucked dry into a void. Khaleed gasped, his chest feeling as though it were being crushed by a giant, invisible hand. His mana was drained in a heartbeat. He fell to his knees, his cleaver slipping and clinking against a stone. Clang.

​Wabil didn't release Orchid's sword. Instead, she tilted her head, bringing her hair-veiled face closer. A single white, pupil-less eye peeked through the strands, staring straight into Orchid's pupils.

​And that voice echoed again, right in the center of Orchid's consciousness.

​"Messenger of Narisa. Descendant of the traitor Maiden. You two... are somewhat entertaining."

​The voice was soft, almost as sweet as a loving whisper, yet every syllable carried the weight of thousands of years of death that made the blood freeze.

​Wabil released her pinch, letting Orchid stumble. She hovered back slightly, dancing a little in the air before stopping right in front of the kneeling, weakened Khaleed.

​"The fire you bring... it is so hot," Wabil murmured. She reached out her pale hand, gently touching Khaleed's chest. Just a fingertip touch on the cracked red armor. "But fire cannot burn the plague. Fire can only be... extinguished by it."

​Khaleed tried to move his hand, tried to reach for his cleaver, but his body betrayed him. From the point of Wabil's touch, something black began to spread. It wasn't a burn, but an instantaneous rot. The pitch-black color crawled with terrifying speed—to his neck, his arms, then his face. Within seconds, Khaleed's frame transformed into fragile charcoal.

​His fire cleaver lay helpless. The light on the blade dimmed slowly until it went out completely.

​Khaleed, the Hero of Ignis-Sol, died in a suffocating silence. There was no final resistance, only a black body collapsing to the ground and crumbling into ash.

​Orchid didn't wait for his turn. He attacked again—not out of optimism, but because he preferred to die as a warrior rather than prey. He slashed blindly. Fast. Wild. There were no more techniques or precision, only pure rage remained.

​Wabil didn't retaliate. She merely shifted slightly, tilting her head by a hair's breadth to let Orchid's sword pass through empty air. She observed Orchid like a scientist watching a dying insect. Until finally, she grew bored.

​Her hand rose. Two fingers touched Orchid's forehead. Gently, as if giving a final blessing to a student.

​"You inherit his sword. You inherit his sins. But alas, you do not inherit his common sense. Archon Ometra at least knew when to bow."

​Orchid froze. Not because of magic, but because his ancestor's name was mentioned with such contempt. The name he had revered for so long now sounded like a joke before this entity.

​Wabil leaned close to Orchid's ear. Her whisper sharply tore through the Hero's psyche. "Tell your ancestor... the Maiden has found a new master. And her new master... is far more interesting than you."

​Wabil's finger pressed the forehead a little harder. Thud.

​Instantly, Orchid's lungs felt filled with a thick, cold, and dark fluid. He choked, vomiting black liquid from his mouth. Cough... cough... The dark blood dripped onto his cloak. The strength in his hands vanished. The legendary red sword vibrated violently, its light flickering twice before finally dying out completely, leaving behind an old metal hilt that no longer possessed a soul.

​Orchid fell to his knees, then collapsed to his side. His eyes remained open, staring faintly toward the north—toward where Zero Castle lay. Toward the only man who might be able to end this horror.

​Wabil paid no mind to the corpse beneath her. She turned, staring in the same direction: North.

​Around her, thousands of Plagueborne had finished their feast. New corpses continued to rise, joining a massive, growing column. Thousands, tens of thousands, ready to swallow everything in their path.

​Wabil raised her hand high.

​"To the north. To Brassvale. Consume everything that still draws breath."

​The army of the dead moved in unison. Zombies, Ghouls, and even the Death Knights turned, marching steadily toward the heart of the kingdom. The ground shook beneath the millions of dead footsteps.

​Wabil did not join the ranks. She hovered ahead, leaving behind a battlefield that now held only silence and the discarded husks of legendary weapons. Her goal wasn't just to destroy Brassvale. There was something more personal there.

​Someone who had once stood as her equal.

​Behind her, two Heroes lay lifeless. The war between two great kingdoms had ended without a winner. And Wabil of Plague—the harbinger of the pestilence—continued toward the north, toward an encounter she had long anticipated.